


just off the key of reason

by tobefree (NotAllThoseWhoWander)



Series: we don't fight fair [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Punk, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 00:57:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1838539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAllThoseWhoWander/pseuds/tobefree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is the impassioned lead singer of struggling rock group The Revolutionaries; Grantaire fronts for We The Cynics, an appropriately-disillusioned punk band. When the two groups are forced to face off at a local Battle of the Bands, all hell breaks loose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> my sister (winchesters/little punk) were going to co-write a rock band au, but decided to go our separate creative ways and write our own respective fics. hers ("rock and roll saved my soul") is really, really amazing, and you all should check it out!
> 
> the fic title is a lyric from fall out boy's "hum hallelujah"; chapter titles will also be song titles and lyrics—i don't own anything; all lyrics and titles are the property of their respective writers/owners/whatever

* * *

 

 

Olympia isn't a small town—it's the goddamn  _state capital_ , for one thing—population verging on fifty thousand. So why does Enjolras recognize the same seventy-odd faces in the crowd every time they play a gig at the Olympia Olympic? 

"Bottle kid is back," Courfeyrac reports in the venue's dingy backroom, returning from a glance into the audience. "Watch your heads."

"Fuckin—" Feuilly begins, but is interrupted by a hand-wringing Joly.

"Are you serious? Why'd they let him back in? That little  _punk_ is going to fucking take someone's eye out. Or their ear off. Or—"

"Okay, okay." Enjolras lifts his guitar, hangs the strap around his neck. "This is what we're going to do. We're going to go out on stage and work under the assumption that nobody is going to throw a bottle, or bricks, or—fuck, I don't know—piss at us. We're going to assume that the crowd is gonna fucking  _love us_. Okay?"

He looks around; the band is less than enthusiastic. Feuilly is warming up on the table, hammering drumsticks against yellowed plastic. Combeferre's fingers move soundlessly over the neck of his guitar—practicing their opening riff. Courfeyrac hunches over a mirror, applying thick lines of black eyeliner.

"Yeah," Combeferre says, following a moment's silence. Later, Enjolras will marvel that it's always Combeferre who speaks first, who agrees first, who rallies the others when Enjolras is failing to do so. "Tonight, The Revolutionaries rock Olympia."

* * *

 

As it happens, The Revolutionaries  _don't_ rock Olympia. 

They start their set with a popular number—Red and Black, full of crunchy guitar riffs and scream-y vocals. The punk crowd is hungry, they love Red and Black, swallow the notes like they're sweet. 

Then, as Combeferre hurls out a final chord, Enjolras grabs the mic.

"Now we're gonna play one of our new songs. Are you  _ready_?"

A fairly enthusiastic cry goes out.

"This is called Stick It!" Enjolras shouts, feedback screaming through the speakers. They launch hard into playing it—and, okay, it totally tanks. Hard. Ugly.

By the time Stick It (a working title that Enjolras hates and lyrics that he keeps re-writing in his head as he's singing them) is through, the assembled crowd is lackluster; people are leaving through the back door, slivers of light from the venue's neon sign streaming through every time another figure exits. Halfway through the set, Bottle Kid chucks a beer bottle in Enjolras' direction. He ducks just in time.

"Hey!" Combeferre grabs the mic. "Hey, someone grab that fucking kid!"

There's a general skirmish as people cast around for the culprit.

"Throw him the fuck out of here!" Combeferre shouts, but if management is listening they don't care. Bottle Kid screams some obscenity and leaves.  

Everything kind of dissolves after that. They're used to it by now. Someone throws a bottle or pisses on the stage or punches the wrong guy or gropes a girl, and then fists are flying and nobody gives a shit about the music anymore. 

"See, that's the problem," Enjolras gripes, hauling an amp into the van an hour later. "These crowds care less about the music and more about, like, starting a fight or seeing some blood on the floor or fucking the girl next to them. You know?"

Courfeyrac hauls equipment across the rain-slick parking lot. Low clouds promise more precipitation. Streetlights cast everything in weak gold. 

"Tickets are ten bucks. What more do you want?"

"Well, nothing." Enjolras helps Feuilly grapple the drum kit into the back of the van. "I guess."

" _That's_ the problem," Courfeyrac says, and straightens to push curly dark hair away from his face. "We're  _always_ guessing."

* * *

 

They drive south through a rainstorm, the interior of the dark van drenched in red and yellow; headlights, taillights. Courfeyrac drives. As they're driving through Longview, Enjolras falls asleep on the front bench seat, his head on Combeferre's lap. 

"We sucked tonight," he murmurs, already half-asleep. He can hear the hiss of water under the tires. Courfeyrac sings along with the radio; something low and quiet. "We tanked."

"We didn't tank." Combeferre's gentle fingers are in Enjolras' curly fair hair, stroking it. "Shit happens."

"I know," Enjolras says, softly, and falls asleep. When he wakes up it's almost midnight, and the van is slowing and turning. It's the click-clack of the turn signal that pulls him from sleep. "Where are we?"

Courfeyrac maneuvers the van into a parking lot—everything a rain-blurry haze of yellow light. His lips are curved into a smile. Feuilly is sliding a CD out of the radio slot. In the back, Joly is texting furiously. 

"Dude," Courfeyrac says loudly, "we're going to Denny's, motherfuckers."

* * *

 

Sitting around a maroon plastic booth, drinking tepid coffee and talking shit about the Olympia crowd and Bottle Kid, Enjolras doesn't want to fracture the moment by bringing up next weekend.

He's about to, but then Courfeyrac breaks in with a truly damning comment about Bottle Kid's  _really greasy hair_ and penchant for shitty nu-metal shirts, and everyone's laughing and Enjolras joins them. In the end it's Joly who breaches that field, clearing his throat quietly and tapping his knife against the tabletop. 

"So, uh. Next weekend."

A chorus of moans and sighs and  _please don't remind me_ (courtesy of Courfeyrac) rise. Joly drinks more coffee, his eyes darting from Enjolras to Feuilly to Combeferre to Courfeyrac. 

"Competition this year is going to be  _very stiff_." He's still tapping the knife against the table, a drumbeat of pent-up anxiety. "Very serious bands. Guys who have been preparing all year, who are playing bigger venues than us, who have better equipment and—"

"–and  _half_ of the fucking heart that this band's got!" Courfeyrac says, too loudly for an eating establishment at one a.m., and other patrons turn to stare as the little group of ragged young men in the corner booth cheer quietly and slap each other's shoulders and generally carry on for a solid minute or two. 

Later, when it's past two o'clock and they're almost home and the rain has stopped, Combeferre falls asleep with his head on Enjolras' shoulder. Enjolras closes his eyes a little, inhales the smell of Combeferre's soap and laundry detergent. Feuilly is smoking in the front, windows cranked down, one hand on the wheel. Courfeyrac listening to Iron Maiden and air-drumming even though he has no idea what he's doing. Joly is asleep in the very back row, headphones on. His lips are curved into a gentle smile. 

Suddenly, Enjolras feels like crying. He's not sure why. He's not, like, an overly-emotional guy; he keeps it mostly under cover, at least around other people. And  _especially_ around the band. 

 _It was just the show_ , he tells himself.  _It's easy to get emotional after a shitty crowd_. 

And maybe it is, but he still has to swipe tears from the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand. Nobody else notices. They drive on swiftly through the night. 

* * *

 

"I need to take Saturday off," Enjolras tells his boss on Wednesday.

She doesn't actually reply, just kind of hums under her breath. Enjolras bounces on the soles of his feet, wondering if she'd heard or not.

"I need to take—"

"Heard you." Melinda is pretty cool, most of the time—she owns an independent record store, so she must be  _pretty_ cool, but this is Portland, and Enjolras isn't sure that owning an independent record store earns you much cred anymore. Besides, Melinda is kind of rude. 

Enjolras waits until she's done filing whatever paperwork she's filing, then pleads his case.

"My band is doing this Battle of the Bands thing, and it's a pretty big deal for us, and—"

"How old are you?"

"What?" Enjolras says, and then, "um. Twenty-two."

Melinda kind of laughs. "Take Saturday off."

"Really?"

She sort of scowls. "This is your last weekend off, kid. But, yeah, I'm giving you this one."

"Thanks. Thank you. Really. Thanks." Enjolras dips into an awkward half-bow, already fumbling for the office door. He flees to the Clearance aisle and send a quick group text:  _got sat. off. can't wait. we're gonna fuckin rock this thing._

Later, when Enjolras' lip-ringed coworker asks him why he's smiling, he shrugs and says,

"I think I've got a good thing coming."

* * *

 

"We're fucked."

It's Saturday afternoon, and they're in the parking lot of the Echo, with about fifty-odd other bands who are all skirmishing for the same winning title.

"Don't say that," Courfeyrac implores. "Bad vibes."

"Did you  _see_ the list? Do you  _know_ who we're up against?" Enjolras sinks down on an amp, puts his head in his hands. "I'm sorry, guys. It's bad luck."

"Kafka isn't  _that_ good. We have a chance." Combeferre says evenly, tuning his guitar. They've got the back of the van open, have been sitting around trying to dispel last-minute nerves for the past few hours. 

"They were semi-finalists last year. They've toured. They're better."

Despair settles in. The Echo's neon sign is turned off, bulbs flat and gray in the thin autumn sunlight. Enjolras feels sick. Trapped. He's about to say something  _really_ stupid, something along the lines of suggesting that they all just fuck off and go home, when a short girl in a polo shirt approaches. 

"Are you," she consults a clipboard, "The Revolution."

"Yeah." Joly shoots to his feet, cramming his hands in his jean pockets. "I'm the manager. Yeah, we are. Why? What's up? Did something happen?"

"Um, you were supposed to go up against Kafka in the pre-lims, but they dropped out of the competition."

Silence falls like a woolen blanket.

"What?" Joly says.

"Yeah, they booked a tour in Europe, so." The girl cracks chewing gum. "Obviously this thing is a little. You know. Elementary."

"So who are we going up against?" Enjolras asks. The girl takes her time checking the clipboard. 

"Uh. My Toxic Love Story." She arches one eyebrow. "I don't know. Never heard of them." She pauses. "I've never heard of you guys, either. But. Whatever."

Enjolras waits until she's at least twenty feet away before letting out a shout of pure, unrestrained joy, pumping his fist in the air.

"God bless Kafka's overseas success," Joly murmurs, lifting his eyes like he's praying.

* * *

 

No one is surprised when My Toxic Love Story is awful. 

They're a group of high-schoolers—juniors or seniors, Enjolras guesses. The lead singer has ragged black hair and sings with a scratchy, too-high voice, and the lead guitarist keeps fucking up royally and turning his back on the crowd like he's trying to steel himself. 

"Is this a joke?" Courfeyrac murmurs, standing beside Enjolras backstage. "Please tell me that someone is, like, punking us. Like on MTV. Please."

"I have no idea what's happening, but this is amazing." Enjolras watches the lead singer try to pull off a sexy gyrating move; he fails so badly that Enjolras sees a girl in the front row start laughing. 

They're singing what they've  _said_ is an original song, but about halfway through it becomes exceedingly apparent that the song is a pretty blatant ripoff of a song by a certain 2000s alt rock band by a  _very_ similar name. 

So, it's pretty obvious whose going to come out on top. 

The judges seem to really like Red and Black; they're nodding, tapping their feet in time with the music. Enjolras recognizes a couple of guys from the local alt station. 

By the time they finish, chests heaving with the thrill of playing not only for an audience of about two hundred but also fairly confident in their win, Enjolras can't stop smiling. He feels like a fucking idiot, but he's also the luckiest fucking idiot in the state of Oregon. They all are.

On the way out the door, they pass two punks in spiked jackets; a girl and guy. 

"They just won their round," the girl tells the guy as Enjolras pushes the door open—hearing the words lights a fire in his chest. 

* * *

 

Later that night, when Joly gets the phone call—they've won their pre-lim, advanced to the next round—everyone goes crazy from their usual booth at The Cat Club, a dive bar near the river. 

Enjolras drinks with abandon, then sits alone with Joly at a table to plan for the upcoming week.

"We can't do Red and Black again," Joly says, consulting a list of contest rules. "The same song can't be done twice. And everyone in the band has to keep playing the same instrument that they were when we won the pre-lim...no one can be intoxicated on stage...wow, I had no idea that these rules existed. We've never had enough cause to read through them."

"Because we've never gotten this far."

"Yeah." They stare at each other, caught in a moment of almost-delirium. It feels so  _good_ knowing that they've won, even going up against a group of high schoolers. Enjolras gets buzzed, and then tipsy, and then  _drunk_. And that feels good, too. Cutting loose.

They get kicked out past one, after three last calls. Courfeyrac and Joly take a cab home together; Feuilly, whose ability to consume huge amounts of alcohol without getting dangerously drunk is uncanny, bikes home. Combeferre watches him go from the corner, _  
_

"How the fuck is that guy not plastered? I thought that we all drunk the same amount."

"Who knows?" Enjolras laughs; he feels carefree, loose-limbed. 

"Well, I'm walking." Combeferre pauses. "Want to come?"

Enjolras makes a sound of agreement, walks beside Combeferre through gritty streets lit only by neon and streetlights. He feels like the night is swallowing them, chewing them up. He walks closer to Combeferre.

Combeferre's roommates are working; one does a night shift at the medical center, the other bartends at a swanky club near the Pearl District. The apartment is cool and empty. Combeferre turns on lights; the kitchen, the living room. There's a clutter of stuff on the couch and coffee table—folded laundry, nurse's scrubs, magazines, a guitar, a tangle of video-game controllers. 

"Do you want tea? Or coffee? I can make—"

Combeferre breaks off when Enjolras kisses him. He doesn't move. When Enjolras pulls away, Combeferre says,

"This is  _not_ a good idea."

"We're both drunk," Enjolras says, very quietly. He puts his right hand on Combeferre's chest, slides it down to his stomach. He feels Combeferre's breath hitch. Enjolras slides his hand lower, to the waistband of Combeferre's jeans (and,  _god_ , why does he always wear those fucking tight pants?) and Combeferre moans and rolls his hips up, a movement that feels almost subconscious.

Then there's a fumbling of hands; Combeferre's fingers—guitarist's fingers, so  _clever_ —pushing under his shirt, playing across his chest. They end up in the hallway, and then up against the wall of Combeferre's bedroom, next to a Pearl Jam poster. Enjolras can practically  _feel_ Eddie Vedder's eyes on them, silently judging as Enjolras' fingers dip under Combeferre's waistband again.

"Fuck your judgement, Eddie Vedder," he mumbles, aware that he's slurring his words.

"What?" Combeferre breathes against Enjolras' neck, and Enjolras shakes his head— _nothing_ —as he slides a hand down the front of Combeferre's pants.

" _Fuck_ ," Combeferre moans, loudly, throws his head back. The word is drawn-out, slow:  _fuckkk_. It sets Enjolras' skin on fire. 

"I know," Enjolras says, jerking him off. He realizes that that sounds kind of stupid. He also doesn't care, because Combeferre's shoulders are against the wall, pressed back, and the room is dark and cool and the faster that Enjolras' hand moves the louder Combeferre gets, and the more he thrusts his hips up, cock slick with pre-cum. He comes hard, too, hissing  _god, fuck_ against the skin of Enjolras' neck. He's shuddering. 

Then, and Enjolras isn't entirely sure how, they're on the edge of Combeferre's bed and Enjolras is sitting in Combeferre's lap, knees by Combeferre's thighs, grinding down against him, moaning nonsense into his shoulder, and first Combeferre gets handsy and Enjolras comes thrusting up into Combeferre's curled fingers, gasping and biting down on Combeferre's shoulder. 

"Holy fuck, man," he murmurs, shifting against Combeferre. And then, "are you serious?", because Combeferre is already hard again, his eyes dark and unreadable in the unlit bedroom. 

So Enjolras, being a logical and giving friend, kneels on the floor and sucks Combeferre's dick. Which he's  _really good at_. Combeferre comes hard, his hands fisted in Enjolras' curly hair. Enjolras dips up to kiss him on the mouth, hard. Combeferre moans against the kiss. He falls backwards against the bed, lies there on his back with Enjolras on top of him.

Enjolras' face is pressed to Combeferre's chest, and he's inhaling the smell of mint soap and suddenly he's full of half-formed regret and sadness. He climbs off the bed, goes into the bathroom in the hallway. He looks at himself in the mirror. Then he closes his eyes for a long time, standing at the sink, swaying a little with drunkenness. Just standing there. The room spins around him, and everything feels a little like a dream.

* * *

 

Sleeping with Combeferre isn't something that either of them have ever, like,  _planned_. It wasn't really random, per se. They'd known each other in college, and one night they'd both been drunk and Enjolras had instigated things, jerking Combeferre off in the bathroom of a house downtown. They hadn't talked about it for a month, until just before graduation they had been high and slept together. A few months later, when they were both sober, they'd done it again. 

At first, Enjolras thought that maybe they had a shot at something. He knew that Combeferre dated girls, and guys, and people in between, and he was always really quiet about it, didn't make a big deal out of anything. Most of the time, no one knew that he had a girlfriend or boyfriend or whatever until he explicitly told them. Enjolras had figured, hey, maybe they could work something out. It was more of a hook-up, and then the band happened and nothing was so simple, and they started spending more time together, and there were more fumbling hookups in venue bathrooms and the back of the van and at each other's apartments. 

It's something that they keep on the down-low, something that they don't really talk about. They've promised to stop more times than they can count. 

It always happens again. And again. And again.

* * *

 

The Revolutionaries reconvene on Wednesday for band practice, everyone crowding into the rented rehearsal space. It's above a pawn shop, and Enjolras can hear someone trying out a used drum kit. 

"So, I'm thinking that we should play Call Them To Arms." Joly removes the plastic lid from a coffee cup, stirs in a sugar packet. He sniffs the drink, puts the lid back on. "Anyone disagree?"

"It's our best best," Courfeyrac says, and everyone agrees. A loud, intense song, pretty political. Good bassline, strong drumbeat. A pretty tight guitar solo. They practice for three hours, Joly drilling them again and again— "pretend that I'm the judges, okay? Okay?" —which pretty much sets the week's standard. By Friday evening, Joly is just short of a nervous wreck. 

"We have to be prepared to be up against  _serious competition_ ," he informs the group grimly, pacing in front of the soundproofed wall. "I mean,  _really_ good bands. That My Chemical—"

"My Toxic Love Story—" Courfeyrac breaks in gleefully.

"—whatever, that was a fluke. We won't get that lucky again. Probably."

"Joly," Enjolras says. "We're  _ready_."

And this time, he really believes it.

* * *

 

Saturday afternoon, just past one o'clock.

Joly is a nervous wreck. He nearly has a panic attack when it's announced that they'll face off against White Fear, a frankly horrifying and fairly popular death metal group. White Fear is local, and well-liked.

Okay, so it's  _totally rational_ that Enjolras is a little nervous. Or a lot nervous. 

"How're you doing?" Combeferre asks before their set, running his fingers through his hair. 

"Um. I think I might throw up." Enjolras swallows. His throat is bone-dry. "Yeah. Definitely think I'm gonna puke."

"Are you serious. You're not actually, right?" Joly looks ready to have some kind of conniption.

"He's fine. You're fine." Combeferre smooths Enjolras' hair, touches his cheek gently. It's more soothing than anything.

"Yeah, I'm fine." If Enjolras repeats it to himself a few times, it will dull the nerves. 

It doesn't. Of course it doesn't. They hear their name called and it sounds so weird and flat over the loudspeakers, and the crowd goes up in a cheer and Enjolras is running out onto the stage, grabbing the mic; he hears Combeferre's guitar come in to his right, and then the drums, and he belts Call Them To Arms like there's no tomorrow. 

He's literally on the verge of either passing out or vomiting from the sheer anxiety of it all; it's not the crowd, it's the judges and what they're writing down and the idea that some fucking shitty weird metal band is probably going to beat them. 

Enjolras gives it all he's got. They all do. He's shaking by the time the song's finished, his legs weak. He's vaguely aware of grabbing the mic and saying thank you, or, hope you liked it, or something. Then they're backstage again, a blur of white floors and harsh lights.

"That was good," Joly says, and he's holding Enjolras' shoulder like it's the only thing grounding him. "That was really good. I think they liked it, I really do."

Everyone is sweaty and tired and nervous, so they go back to the van and sit around and drink some beer. 

Joly keeps talking about the performance, analyzing every single aspect of it, and Enjolras feels like he needs to escape.

"I think I might go talk to some other groups. Network a little."

He pauses, waits to see if anyone wants to come. No one does, and Enjolras doesn't blame them—it's been a long day—so he starts kind of wandering around the parking lot, everything gilded in evening sunlight. 

Most of the groups are either packing up or getting ready; bands that have just lost their rounds are too bitter to shoot the breeze, and Enjolras doesn't really want to talk to winners, either. He knows it's kind of awful, but he hears a group gloating about winning their round and steers clear. 

He's headed back to the van when someone says,

"Hey, you're that guy from The Revolutionaries, right?"

Enjolras turns. A short dark-haired girl in a studded leather jacket is standing next to a van, smoking. Her face is familiar. 

"Yeah. I saw you yesterday. In there." He gestures broadly to the Echo. The girl who had said  _they just won their round_. Hearing her had made him feel on top of the world, but Enjolras isn't about to admit that. 

The girl nods, slides a cigarette pack from her jacket pocket. "Want one?"

"I don't smoke," Enjolras says. Then, "Uh, well, cigarettes."

She gives him an appraising nod. "You're the lead singer. I liked your set. It was really good."

"Thanks." Why is he surprised when people compliment their music? It still feels weird, like someone giving a really personal compliment. The songs are so much a part of  _him_. "Are you, uh, competing?"

She nods, exhales smoke. Offer a hand. "Éponine. We're We The Cynics."

"Enjolras. And I like the name," Enjolras says, which isn't strictly true. He dislikes cynics in the same way that he dislikes really conservative people. He just doesn't  _get_ it. "Do you sing?"

Éponine laughs. "Uh, no. I mean, yeah. But not—I play guitar. And drums. Sometimes. I'm a switch," she says, and gives him a smirk that leaves Enjolras wondering if that's some kind of weird sexual innuendo.

"Who's your singer?" he asks, more out of curiosity than anything. Éponine rolls her eyes. Then she turns and knocks on the van's filthy window.

"Get your ass out here!" 

Silence.

"Fuckin—" Éponine mutters, and slams her foot against the van, hard. There's a muffled sound, like an exclamation, and then movement. The passenger door opens, slowly, a face appearing behind the glass. Enjolras barely gets a look before the door swings open suddenly and violently, the figure collapsing down the steps and landing face-first on the asphalt. 

Enjolras jumps, ready to administer, like, CPR or something. Éponine pulls a face.

"What the fuck, dude? We're on in thirty." She gives Enjolras a swift and apologetic look, then toes the guy's shoulder, flipping him onto his back.

"Ha." The kid—because, Christ, he looks about nineteen—laughs, lips parting to reveal very white teeth. Unruly dark hair sweeps over his forehead, the right half of his face. He blinks, and his eyes are very green. "Sky's so  _blue_."

"You are such a fucking loser," Éponine says softly, and there's a kind of half-gentleness to her voice. Then she turns to Enjolras. "This is our lead singer. Enjolras, meet Grantaire."

* * *

 

"You know," Enjolras says, in a totally nonjudgmental tone, "I'm pretty sure that if you're drunk, they'll kick the entire band off the program."

"Not a chance." Éponine tosses her hair. It's nearly waist-length, shiny and dark. The tips are dyed violent crimson. "He's always like this."

"Drunk?"

She laughs. "You have  _no_ idea."

Enjolras laughs too; a kind of laugh of agreement, or maybe sympathy. Grantaire is still flat on his back outside the van, having refused their help in standing upright. Éponine is searching through the back for something—Enjolras didn't catch what it was, and didn't ask. 

"Anyways, we've done this gig, like, twice. We almost made it to semi-finals two years ago."

"No kidding."

"Yeah. We'd just gotten together. It was crazy."

Enjolras looks around the van, at Grantaire lying on his back. He's wearing a green plaid shirt and tight jeans, and one of his hands is thrown across his chest. His face is ashen. 

"He doesn't look so good."

Éponine doesn't respond. "Move your fingers," she says, and shuts the back of the van. Enjolras follows her back to the front. He steps around Grantaire. He's watching Éponine relace her boots when someone touches his leg. Enjolras turns, and Grantaire is grinning at him sort of sideways.

"Give me a hand?" It comes out sounding like _'ive m'a 'and?_ and he blinks furiously.

"Uh. Yeah." Enjolras turns, offers his hand. Grantaire's own palm is sweaty, clammy. As Enjolras is helping the guy to his feet—a lot of staggering is involved—two other Cynics materialize. A lanky dark-featured guy with a mohawk slaps Enjolras' shoulder and says, "hey, man" like they're old friends. A slight kid with shoulder-length reddish hair thrusts his beer can into mohawk's hand and brushes Grantaire's shoulder off. 

"You've got dust all over you, man." 

"Dirt." Grantaire smirks. "I'm a filthy guy, what can I say?"

Enjolras looks away. He isn't sure why it makes him uncomfortable—he's spent a majority of the last six-odd years in the Northwest alt rock scene, so he's no stranger to booze and drugs. And Enjolras is no teetotaler himself.  Being drunk is  _fun_.

 _In moderation_ , he thinks, watching as the red-haired guy passes a gentle hand over Grantaire's unruly hair. Maybe it's the salacious look that Grantaire wears; like he's the kind of guy who's willing to seduce anyone. There's something practiced in his voice. 

"This is Bahorel," Éponine says, indicating the mohawked guy, "and Jehan." 

"I'm Enjolras." He shakes hands.

"Oh. The, uh, Revolution guy, right?" Bahorel says. 

"The Revolutionaries," Enjolras corrects, somewhat lamely.

"You sing?" Grantaire asks, his voice loud and sudden and rough in Enjolras' ear. 

"Yeah."

"I sing too. Bahorel's on drums. Jehan's on bass." Grantaire's swaying a little. He stares through Enjolras. 

"Good to know," Enjolras says, and he's surprised to hear a stiffness in his voice. "Well, we'll probably see you around."

"Sure," Bahorel says. "You guys win your round?"

"We don't know." Enjolras nearly says  _probably not_ but refrains. It would pretty unprofessional, not to mention insulting to the rest of The Revolutionaries. "I guess we'll find out."

"Good luck," Jehan says. His voice is high and sort of quiet. "I'm sure we'll all run into each other around the city."

"Of course." Enjolras waves to the band. As he turns to leave, he sees Grantaire snapping a drunken mock-salute. Weaving through the crowded parking lot, Enjolras can't help but roll his eyes.

Talk about a total lack of professionalism. Okay, so they're a rock band. And, yeah, he's never heard of We The Cynics and doubts that any of the judges have, either. But showing up for a serious competition drunk off your ass? It rubs him the wrong way. A lot of people take Battle of the Bands fairly lightly—sure, it's very structured and the two winning bands tour together, which is essentially Enjolras' dream, but a lot of the younger kids treat it like a joke. They go in with the mentality that there will always be someone better, more skilled, someone who started singing at six and playing guitar at eight, someone whose band got signed to a label within weeks or months. 

It pisses him off. A lot. Enjolras isn't, like, one of the those militant guys who takes music annoyingly seriously. He's lighthearted, he knows when to joke around and when it's time to be serious. The little part of Combeferre that's rubbed off on Enjolras scolds him, tells him to lay off Grantaire. 

 _Whatever_ , Enjolras thinks. Grantaire is just the frontman of a band that's probably never going to go anywhere. Another hopeless alcoholic in the Northwest scene. They're a dime a dozen, really, and it makes him sad.

Any thought of Grantaire, or We The Cynics, is cut short by a shout from The Revolutionaries' van. Enjolras breaks into a run, mind racing, and in a way he already knows before he rounds a rundown camper and...

"We  _won_!" Combeferre is the first to barrel into him, hugging Enjolras so tight that his ribs ache. Combeferre lifts him off the ground, spins him, puts him down, hugs him again. "We fucking won!"

Then everyone else is there—Courfeyrac and Feuilly and Joly, everyone hugging each other and ruffling each other's hair and slapping each other on the back, almost delirious with adrenaline. 

"We fucking  _beat White Fear_ ," Courfeyrac says, like he's bewildered (and Enjolras is, too). 

"I guess that popularity doesn't compare to talent," Joly says, and he's never looked so proud.

"This means that we're on to semi-finals," Enjolras murmurs. "Wait, guys."

Everyone's milling around, still grinning.

"What?" Feuilly says.

Enjolras looks up, inhales their ecstasy like a drug, like air after almost drowning.

"This means," he says, and it's what they've all realized, or are realizing, by now, "that we have a shot at winning."

 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s Joly’s idea.

“I think that we should go into the venue,” he says, when they’ve all caught their breath. “Watch the other bands, see what we’re up against.”

 

Nobody protests; it’s actually a very good idea, because as they’re walking across the parking lot Enjolras starts to feel a sense of impending doom settle in. It’s pretty rapidly dispelled as they make their way to the Echo’s front door, squeeze into the back of the crowd.

 

There’s a really awful indie band on stage, all yodel-y vocals and an inventive clarinet solo that tanks. The crowd obviously isn’t feeling it, and Enjolras doubts that the judges are. That makes him feel a little better.

 

“Well, they sucked ass,” Feuilly comments brightly.

 

“And next, coming at you from the City of Roses itself—it’s We The Cynics!” someone blares through a loudspeaker. The crowd cheers. Enjolras tries, and fails, not to roll his eyes.

 

“Can’t wait to see this shitshow,” he mutters to Combeferre, who gives him a kind of play nice glance but doesn’t respond.

 

Grantaire runs onto the stage, dramatically half-tripping over his own untied shoelaces—he’s wearing filthy Converse—and seizes the microphone. The rest of the band rushes in behind him, Éponine practically skipping.

 

“Are you fucking _ready_?” Grantaire screams, and the crowd goes wild. Enjolras arches an eyebrow. Feuilly and Courfeyrac join in the cheering with abandon. “This one’s called Hand Grenade, and it goes out to all of you motherfuckers!”

 

Enjolras almost laughs out loud—there’s no way the audience is going to actually go for this act—but he swallows the noise when We The Cynics launch into a frenzied, thrashing punk anthem.

 

Like, fuck.

 

Grantaire can fucking sing.

 

He’s throwing out the lyrics like dying breaths, hanging onto the mic, dark hair obscuring his face. This isn’t the drunk dipshit who couldn’t stand up on his own in the parking lot. This is a different person, this is someone born for the stage.

 

“ _Cause we’re hand grenades, hand grenades, and I’m ready to_ —”

 

_Holy shit._ Enjolras is only half-aware of the crowd going nuts, only half-aware of his own breathing. There’s one last power chord from Éponine, Bahorel pounding the everloving shit out of the drums in the most fucking beautiful way, and they all step back.

 

Grantaire laughs into the mic.

 

“Thanks,” he mutters, and grins that sideways grin in the judge’s direction.

 

Enjolras tries not to gape.

 

Combeferre turns and bends low to talk in Enjolras’ ear:

 

“So, uh. What shitshow was that, again?”

_________________________________

 

He’s sorting through a bin of used records, trying to determine what’s okay for sale and what’s totally trashed, when Courfeyrac calls.

 

“Dude, We The Cynics won their round.”

 

“Knew it.” Enjolras holds the phone between his ear and shoulder, inspects a Vampire Weekend record. “I fucking knew it.”

 

“Are you surprised? They’re fuckin’ awesome.”

 

“Uh. Yeah.” Enjolras can hear hissing steam and talking in Courfeyrac background. Coffee shop sounds. He wonders how exactly Courfeyrac managed to score a barista job with the most lax bosses in the city. He’s allowed to have, like, any kind of personal conversation in the book while working.

 

“What?” A pause. “Dude, what?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Well, it’s obviously something. Do you know the band? Are they dicks or something?”

 

“It’s not that.” Enjolras sifts through more records: The Beatles, Stones, Sex Pistols, Bon Jovi, some classical recordings put out by the London Symphony Orchestra. “Their singer was totally trashed when he was up there.”

 

“So? Half of the bands are, like, snorting coke in the bathroom before they do Battle of the Bands. Gives them an edge. Or something.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” It’s not that Enjolras disapproves because it’s _breaking a rule_. That would be petty and stupid. It’s more...principle. “I know.”

 

“Anyways, we’ll probably be up against them.”

 

Enjolras pauses for a moment, thinking hard. “Can I ask you something?”

 

“Uh. Yeah."

 

"How the fuck did we win over White Fear?"

 

Silence. "Luck, I guess."

  
"Courf—"

 

"Fine. Their lead singer was pretty sick. You know that guy with the weird hair? He couldn't stop coughing into the mic. It was really bad. Apparently. I heard this from this one girl in another band who's going out with a girl that  _I_ used to sleep with, like, two years ago in college, so. Yeah. But I guess they were pretty bad and it might have just been a fluke but who knows."

 

"Yeah." Enjolras glances around, praying that Melinda isn't lurking around a corner. She's pretty serious about employees not taking personal calls during store hours. "Yeah, guess we'll never know."

 

"Well, we won. That's the important thing," Courfeyrac says, and there's no way that Enjolras can disagree with that.

 

Still, there's this lingering sense of  _doubt_. He can't concentrate on anything; Enjolras' nerves are practically humming. His fingers are itching; he need to occupy them, pick up a guitar, write a song, re-write an old song. Something. Anything.

Every time he thinks about Saturday he feels kind of sick. It's the  _finals_. The big time. In previous years, losing hadn't seemed like a big deal. Sure, it was pretty shitty to see other bands ( _lesser bands_ , Enjolras thinks) go on to victory, but there was kind of a sense of  _whatever_ around it. It was just a Battle of the Bands. The prize was money, which was nice. But they were working day jobs and Courfeyrac was seeing this girl pretty seriously, and Joly was getting over a nervous breakdown and coming back better and stronger, and nobody was really  _that upset_ when they'd lost. 

This year it feels different. Enjolras is pretty sure that the others feel it, too; a kind of sharp edge under all the joking and I-fucking-hope-we-win's. The feeling that if they don't win this year, they're never going to win. The certainty that this year is a gauge of success for the rest of their lives.

The thought makes him feel a little sick.

At five o'clock, Melinda finds him sitting cross-legged on the floor of the back room, heaps of used records spilling from milk crates and boxes.

"Clean all this up and you can go," she says, and leaves. "Don't forget to lock up."

"Yeah." Enjolras murmurs, but he's only half-paying attention. "I won't."

He's twisting the key in the iron grid that lowers over the storefront when his phone rings.

"Hey."

"You're coming out with us tonight."

"Who's  _us_?" Enjolras strains to hear Courfeyrac over background laughter, a girl's voice, faint music. 

"Uh, your band? One of the guys from Alt 107.6 is having, like, some party at his house. A Battle of the Bands thing. Everyone's gonna be there."

"I think you have the wrong date," Enjolras says, and checks his watch. "It's six o'clock on a Tuesday night."

"Yeah, and this thing is  _definitely_ tonight. Go home and take a shower. Or something. Just look good."

Enjolras rolls his eyes extravagantly, but he drives home and showers quickly, puts on black jeans and a shirt that he figures passes for formal (it has a collar, so. There's that). Courfeyrac picks him up at seven, pulls up in front of Enjolras' dingy apartment block with the van windows down and Metallica blasting.

"Are you shitting me?" Enjolras crams his phone into his pocket. "We're going in the  _van_?"

"Quit bitching, princess." Courfeyrac reaches over to open the passenger door.

"Please tell me that the other guys are gonna be there."

"They promised, so."

"Really?" Enjolras rakes his hands through his hair, examines his face swiftly in the rearview mirror. "Was it a pinky promise?"

"Fuck you," Courfeyrac says cheerfully, nearly sideswiping three parked cars. 

Frankly, Courfeyrac is a  _horrible_ driver. Enjolras isn't entirely sure that his driver's license is legal or valid. Courfeyrac claims that he tested for it in his hometown, out in the countryside of Eastern Washington, where the DMV must have been pretty lax about who they licensed. The guy's a danger—more to himself than others. Give him a straight highway and he'll fair decently (that's going to be a blessing on tour one day, Enjolras thinks), but city streets are hazardous. 

They make small talk until they reach the address, a swanky place in Southeast Portland. Two-story house, already ablaze with lights in the dusk. 

"Uh. I didn't think that radio DJs did  _this_ well." Enjolras leans through the window. There are a couple of guys in polo shirts going up the stairs. "This is a pretty fuckin' nice place."

"Oh, it's not his. I think it belongs to..." Courfeyrac flicks on the turn signal, then slams on the breaks before he collides with a row of garbage cans. "Shit. Uh, someone who runs Alt 107.6? Someone who owns it? I don't know."

"Huh." Enjolras watches some girls get out of a rundown sedan. He recognizes them as a local rock group. "I guess this is going to be pretty cool."

Courfeyrac parks, which involves a lot of lurching and swearing. "Free booze, lots of hotties."

Enjolras almost cringes when Courfeyrac says  _hotties_. He opens the door, waits while Courfeyrac cuts the engine and crams his phone and gum into his pockets. They walk up to the house together. 

Inside, everything is a blue of polished wood flooring and loud music and throngs of people talking and drinking and schmoozing. Courfeyrac locates Feuilly and Joly and Combeferre within seconds, pulls Enjolras over to join them.

"So, I guess we should just go network," Joly says. He's drinking something electric blue with a paper umbrella. 

"For sure, for sure," Courfeyrac mutters, eyeballing the crowd. 

"This is really cool," Feuilly says when Joly and Courfeyrac have vanished into the throngs, "For a Tuesday night."

Enjolras hums in agreement. Feuilly goes off and finds beer, returns to press a can into Enjolras' hands. Then he slides back into the crowd. Enjolras and Combeferre are left alone by a stone fireplace, drinking in silence.

"This is weird. Right? Am I the only one who thinks that this is—"

"No," Combeferre says at once. "It feels like. Not our lives, or something."

"Exactly! We don't do this kind of thing. You know?" Enjolras tips the last of his beer down his throat. "Like, I  _like_ this, but it feels like something that a more. I don't know.  _Successful_ band would go to."

Combeferre nods. "Yeah. I don't know."

Enjolras realizes that he's just insulted The Revolutionaries in a way that's pretty low.

"Shit," he says. "I didn't mean..."

"It's fine. Don't even." Combeferre claps his shoulder. "I'm gonna go talk to the guitarist from 21 Guns."

He goes off and waves to some guy with sleeve tattoos, and they start hugging and talking animatedly about something. Enjolras finds more beer and drinks it until he feels warm and carefree, like he could talk to anyone in the room and they'd get along swimmingly. 

He's not  _drunk_ —it's a Tuesday night and he has work tomorrow and besides, it seems kind of unprofessional to get wasted at a place like this. The room is really stuffy, and the clamor of music and talking is starting to ring in his ears, so Enjolras escapes to a broad balcony. It's less crowded, and the evening air is cool. He goes and stands by the railing and drinks more beer.

"Oh," someone says. "Hey."

Enjolras turns. It's Grantaire. 

He's leaning against the railing and holding a beer can.

"Hi," Enjolras says. Grantaire comes closer. 

"This is pretty," he gestures broadly, indicating the house, the party. "Crazy."

"I didn't think that we'd ever make it to a place like this." Then, "That sounded stupid."

"It didn't." Grantaire says, quietly. "I know what you mean. It's like we don't belong here, right? Like this isn't really for us, but they asked us to come so we wouldn't feel bad."

Enjolras makes a noncommittal sound, but that was  _exactly_ what he meant. 

"Sorry," Grantaire says suddenly, "It's—Enjolras, right?"

Enjolras nods.

"I know we met on Saturday but I don't really—I wasn't exactly. Uh."

"It's cool," Enjolras says, extends his hand. They shake. Grantaire's palm is cool and dry. His fingers curl around Enjolras' briefly, linger. Then he pulls away.

"Nice to meet you. Um. Officially." He's cleaned up, Enjolras thinks. Not that he's  _noticed_ , but. Grantaire's wearing a flannel shirt and the same black jeans and Doc Martins, and his hair is damp like he's just washed it. When he pushes his hand through his hair and ducks his head, Enjolras' stomach does this weird swooping thing. 

They stand in silence for a few minutes, side by side, looking out over the city. The low sprawl of the suburbs, the spike of downtown buildings and hotels, blur of neon giving way to gentle hills. 

"It's so fucking beautiful," Grantaire says softly. He drinks the remainder of his beer, tilting his head back, can pressed to his lips. Enjolras' eyes follow the white line of Grantaire's throat in the semi-darkness. "I'm gonna get another beer. Want one?"

Enjolras nods mutely. When Grantaire is gone he stares out over the pine trees around the house. He feels sort of weird, almost lightheaded, chalks it up to drinking on an empty stomach. 

Grantaire reappears, pressing a can of tepid beer into Enjolras' hand. He opens it and drinks quickly and blindly, not looking at Grantaire. It's fairly obvious fairly quickly that Grantaire is slowly and methodically getting totally shitfaced. 

"Where are you from?" Grantaire asks, breaking the silence. His voice is scratchy. 

"California," Enjolras replies. "Not the cool part, either."

"Is there an _uncool_ part of California?"

Enjolras thinks about that for a moment. "I don't know. I'm from, uh, the Valley." And then, seeing Grantaire's look, "Yeah. That one."

"Are you a Valley girl?" Grantaire smirks a little, his lip curling up over those white, white teeth. Enjolras' stomach does the swooping thing again.

"As far as I know, no."

Grantaire hums in response, turns to look out over the nighttime city. "Do you ever see something so beautiful it hurts?"

Enjolras chokes on an inhale of air. His throat feels weird; it gets like that sometimes, when he's drunk. It's why he's never, _ever_ drunk on stage—it fucks around with his voice. "The city at night."

"Yeah. From here." Grantaire drinks more beer. His face is half-lit by the light from the house, the rest thrown into shadow. All contrast: the slope of a straight nose, his eyelashes, his dark hair. "Think about all the people. Asleep. Awake. Going to work. Going to bed. Rocking their kids to sleep. Fucking each other."

Something changes in his voice when he says  _fucking_ , something that stirs in Enjolras' belly. He swallows with some difficulty. 

"Yeah. Weird."

"Isn't it?" Grantaire blinks. Enjolras thinks, suddenly, that he should say something about Grantaire's performance on Saturday, about his stage presence, but Grantaire is shifting to move closer to Enjolras, and Enjolras can smell cologne and cigarette smoke. His instinct is to step away, but he doesn't. Can't. 

_Um,_ he wants to say.  _This isn't supposed to happen_.

Enjolras turns his head to speak, and Grantaire is there, face inches away.

"Oh." Enjolras says, very quietly.

Grantaire doesn't say anything, leans forward; his eyelids lower. Enjolras panics, shifts backwards three inches. Putting a gap between them, because that's what he does when he's scared, he makes space.

"Wait," he says, and the words come out a murmur. "Where are  _you_ from?"

It's a stupid, hollow question. A space-maker.

"I don't know," Grantaire says, his gaze hungry on Enjolras' face. There's a knife's edge of desperation behind his words. Sadness, too. "Everywhere."

_Everywhere_ , Enjolras thinks, dizzied, and then they're pressing together, lips moving against each other. Enjolras' hands move over Grantaire's stomach, his sides. He leans up and into the kiss. 

And then, in a single swift movement, Grantaire pulls away. He reels a little; so drunk he can't stand straight.

"You want more beer?" 

Enjolras swallows, the cold going through him a shock. "No," he says, and he's barely aware of his lips moving. "No, I don't."

Grantaire turns in the doorway, smiles sideways. He looks like he's going to say something, but then he goes inside without a word. Enjolras turns his face into the night, the air on his cheeks frigid. It stings his eyes. He can smell the river, the clean scent of pines, the smell of cold. Leaves stir in the darkness. Inside, the throb of music grows louder, and Enjolras feels it in his chest, like a second heartbeat. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

"Fuck me," Enjolras says.

He opens his eyes very slowly. He feels like he's slammed headfirst into a brick wall about ten thousand times. Every part of his body actively aches, with the exception of his head. His head fucking  _throbs_. 

Enjolras eases himself upright. He's sitting on a couch, the middle cushions sagging dangerously, and the air is tinted grey-blue, like very early morning. His temples are pounding. It feels like a fucking war-drum between his ears. He moans and drops his head to the cushion, feels the rough fabric under his cheek. It smells like cigarettes.

"Shit," he mutters when he sits up. The room spins around him, and his mouth tastes like ash; it's bone-dry. His tongue is leaden. He feels sick. 

He's at Courfeyrac's place, that much is apparent. It's a house in a low-key residential neighborhood, a place with narrow streets and rundown houses and lots of young people. There are four or five roommates, but they seem disparate, always in and out of the picture. Enjolras can never keep track of them. When he goes into the bathroom, there's a girl sitting on the edge of the bathtub, painting her toenails. She's pretty, with curly dark hair and thick-framed glasses. 

"Hi," she says.

"Hi." Enjolras blinks. The daylight is assaulting him. His eyes burn. It's obvious that the girl (a roommate? A friend?) isn't going to leave, so he takes his time washing his face with cold tapwater and finger-brushing with some borrowed toothpaste. Finally, she looks up and says,

"You can pee in front of me. I won't be offended."

"I don't..." Enjolras begins, but she gives him a look. He feels kind of awkward, pissing in front of some girl he's never met, but he  _really_ needs to pee so. Whatever. She puts another coat of polish on. The smell makes Enjolras feel light-headed. He remembers kissing Grantaire and feels even sicker. 

He tries to clean himself up a little bit, because a cursory glance in the mirror reveals that he looks like hell. His hair is unkempt, tangled and hanging over his right eye. He's pallid to the point of ghostliness. Dark circles underscore his eyes. He's wearing last night's clothes, minus his jeans.

Enjolras follows the sound of cooking to the kitchen, finds Courfeyrac doing something at the stovetop that involves breaking eggs into a bowl. 

"Dude," he starts to say, but then he sees the clock and it comes out  _whatthefuckit'salmostten_ , his chest tightening with sudden panic.  _  
_

"I called in sick for you," Courfeyrac says. He's wearing sweatpants and a white t-shirt and his dark hair is a mess, but the kind of mess that Courfeyrac pulls off pretty well, all things considered. "Your boss thinks you came down with a really bad sore throat and cough, so I'd stick to that story."

"Fuck." Enjolras says. "I can't believe you lied."

"What was I  _supposed_ to tell her?" Courfeyrac breaks another egg with something like vindication. "That you were too hungover to come in?"

"Well. No." Enjolras sits at the little counter. He swings his feet. "Thanks, man."

Courfeyrac turns and gives him a Look. Enjolras gets it. They've been friends for, like, forever. If not forever than something close; they'd met at the tail end of Enjolras' college career, both of them working at the same music venue downtown—a shitty gig that mostly involved, like, cleaning bathrooms and telling people to please not have sex in public. 

There's a moment of warm silence, and then Courfeyrac says,

"Saw you getting pretty handsy last night."

Enjolras' stomach  _literally_ drops through the floor. He chokes on a mouthful of air, a cold hand of panic gripping his chest.

"So, who was it?" Courfeyrac asks, doing something with a pepper shaker. Enjolras swallows—that means that Courfeyrac hadn't seen who it was. He shrugs, like he doesn't remember either, or particularly care.

"Uh, just some guy. I was pretty drunk." 

"He looked a lot like," Courfeyrac begins, and for a terrifying moment Enjolras thinks that he's going to say  _like that guy from We The Cynics_ , but he continues, "that guy you used to hook up with. Uh, Jackson, or whatever."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess." Enjolras hums, and then amends, "but I barely remember anything. Just, like, drinking and kissing someone and walking away."

Courfeyrac snorts quietly. Enjolras thinks that maybe he doesn't believe him.

"Rock star," he says softly.

* * *

 Thursday practice ends at almost eleven o'clock. They've been fine-tuning a song for the semi-finals—Raise it High—and it's pretty empowering and all the right kinds of punk and alt rock and screaming guitar solo and loud drums. Enjolras is fairly confident that the audience is going to  _love it_. And the judges. Because they're the ones that matter.

That pisses him off, kind of.

Like, not that playing to judges  _isn't_ important, because of course in the Real Music World there are critics to consider, and people outside the audience and loyal fans. It's just the whole idea of favoring the judges, considering more what they want to hear than what the audience wants to hear.

When he voices these concerns, Joly rolls his eyes dramatically.

"You have the rest of your career to worry about what the audience wants, Enjolras." He makes a note of something on the paper calendar he keeps tacked to the practice space wall. "And if we fuck up Saturday, I'm not sure how much of a  _career_ this band is going to have."

This draws mumbles of dissent from the band, which Joly quickly dismisses.

"You all know I'm screwing with you," he says, in a tone that suggests that they had  _better_ know, or else. 

"Yeah, we know." Enjolras unhooks the guitar from around his neck, lays it across the plastic card table. "I think we're all just a little high-strung."

It's true. Enjolras feels nervous and edgy, like he needs to either run really far or get into a really intense fistfight. It's a feeling that he can barely explain, but one that's chased him around for practically his entire life. He remembers running ten miles the night before taking the SAT senior year. Through the San Fernando Valley, up and down Victory Boulevard—neon blurring past, winding his way through quiet suburbia under dusky skies. He remembers the way the air felt on his skin. He could have run all the way to the ocean that night, he'd been sure of it. 

"Are you okay?" Melinda asks him Friday morning, in a rare show of sympathy. "You've been acting weird all week."

"I'm fine," Enjolras says, and bares his teeth in a semblance of a smile. "Really."

Melinda gives him a long, hard look. "This is that fucking Band Battle thing, isn't it?"

"What? No!" Enjolras laughs, as if the suggestion is ridiculous. "It's  _definitely_ not. That's just. You know. Nothing."

"Uh-huh," Melinda says, but she goes into her office and leaves him alone to man the front desk. Enjolras is drawing on the back of old sales receipts when the bell over the front door jangles. 

At first, Enjolras doesn't even bother to look up.

"Welcome to Bridge Used Records," he says, a monotone. 

"Can you help me find something? I'm looking for The Revolutionaries' hot new single."

Enjolras just about  _chokes_ on an inhale. He doesn't look up. 

"We haven't actually  _recorded_ anything professionally." Why is his voice so unsteady? He wants to add:  _but you know that_.

"You will." Grantaire sort of drifts over, thumbs hooked around the belt loops of his jeans. He's wearing a green duffel jacket. His hair is lank.

"Um," Enjolras puts the pen down and swipes his palms across his thighs. He definitely shouldn't be sweating right now. "What are you doing here?"

Grantaire gives him a look. It's not quite A Look, but something close. "Buying a CD."

"Okay. Alt rock is aisle two, Metal is aisle—"

"I've been here before. But thanks." Grantaire gives him a smile. It's a quick, sweet smile, and Grantaire drops his eyes to the floor. Enjolras swallows away a stupid fluttering feeling. 

"Let me know if you need—help. Or anything."

Enjolras watches with mild panic while Grantaire searches through the bargain bin at the front of the store. It's difficult to act natural when Grantaire is five feet away, sifting through CDs and acting like they hadn't spent five minutes furiously kissing each other on someone's else balcony on Tuesday night. 

Eventually, Grantaire returns to the counter, carrying two CDs. Enjolras rings them up, quickly appraising the front.

"I love The Clash," he says without thinking. 

"Me too." Grantaire sort of exhales what sounds like a laugh. "They're the band that got me into punk. You know, way back when." He looks at the CD—London Calling—and his lips curve into that same sweet half-smile. "I already have this CD, you know. And the record."

"Take it."

"What?"

"Just. Take it." Enjolras shoves the CD across the counter. "It's free. Just—" he looks over his shoulder, towards Melinda's office. "Just don't tell my boss."

"Dude." Grantaire takes the CD and grins, like it's some big thing and it's not a three-dollar disc that's probably all scratched and fucked up, anyways. "Thanks."

"Yeah." Enjolras just wants Grantaire to  _leave_. At the same time—and this really frightens him—he really,  _really_ doesn't. 

"It's awesome that you work in a record store," Grantaire says, putting his forearms against the glass countertop. His pale fingers skim the receipts that Enjolras had been drawing on the back of. "I didn't know you drew."

 _That's because you don't know me_ , Enjolras thinks. 

"I don't," he says. 

"These aren't horrible."

Enjolras tugs the receipts away. They're actually pretty bad—weird sketches of people he sees in the store, stuff he thinks of while listening to whatever music he plays. He wonders if Grantaire thinks so, too, or if he's just being polite. 

Grantaire checks out a poster taped to the countertop—an ad for a local indie show—for a painfully long time. Enjolras becomes uncomfortably, acutely aware of Grantaire's eyes, the color and depth of them. Then he looks away. He has to break the silence; the unspoken words are pressing against his throat and the roof of his mouth.

"Look," he says, and is secretly pleased when Grantaire starts, "about Tuesday..."

"Huh?" Grantaire straightens, pushing a hand through his hair. Their eyes lock. 

"The..." Enjolras makes a vague gesture. When Grantaire looks blankly at him, Enjolras gestures again, more violently. "You know. We...?"

"Oh." Grantaire swallows visibly. "Yeah. I—remember. Right."

Enjolras stares. 

"I'm sorry," Grantaire says. His cheeks are kind of red, a frankly worrying contrast to his pallor. "Um, I was pretty wasted. I do stupid stuff when I'm drunk."

The words hit Enjolras pretty hard in the chest. In a way, it's a relief; an admission of guilt. 

"It's fine." He passes the second CD under the scanner. "I was drunk, too. I didn't even remember it until, like, last ni—uh, evening."

He corrects himself to  _evening_ because remembering a kiss at night (even if it's a lie) seems a little suggestive. Like maybe he'd been jacking off while thinking about it, or something. Not that he would—

"That's three dollars and fifty cents," Enjolras says, glad that there's  _something_ to distract him. Grantaire fishes in his pocket and hands over exact change. It looks like the last of his money. Enjolras wonders how he'd planned to pay for two CDs. 

"Well," Grantaire says. "See you Saturday, I guess."

"Yeah. See you." Enjolras maintains a stiff smile until Grantaire is out the door. Then he exhales, loud and sharp. He looks at the receipts, at his weird drawings. There's one of a figure with dark, unruly hair. Enjolras tears it down the center, drops it into the trashcan behind the counter. 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:
> 
> The Echo is the name of an actual music venue down here in Los Angeles (great music at a reasonable price, which is always a draw). I don't know a lot about Portland, where this fic is partially set, so I'm relying on maps and vagueness.


End file.
